You're No Different from the Rest
Jesus, I'm at a loss, people. Here are the things I already haven't written about today:
Slim pickins, I tell ya.
On the plus side, though, there's at least on more weblog worth reading: my friend Kate, Canadian ex-pat currently languishing in Florida, has entered the blogging arena. Huzzah and kudos, I say. She is one smart and funny broad.
Man, if I can't say something nice, or smart, or funny, I probably shouldn't say anything at all. ßßß
Every book teaches a lesson, even if the lesson is only that one has chosen the wrong book.*
It hit me this morning, as I was lamenting the vast wasteland that the Internet has become: blawg the book. After all, there's nothing special about a weblog in this day and age — everyone and their mother has one — and I'm all about being special. If I can'
t be special, I don't wanna be. But not everyone has a book (unless you're dating Dave Eggers, in which case you most certainly do). Hence the book. After the book, it's only a matter of time until I sell the motion picture option, move to Silverlake, develop a ridiculous drug habit, date Carmen Elektra (isn't it my turn yet?), and ... where the hell was I? Oh, yeah. Best of blawg: the book.
I've got a more than a year and a half's backlog of material, which is, what, like 300-plus entries? The law of averages would suggest that a few of those probably don't suck, and I might even have enough stuff for an admittedly brief book. I can do the whole thing for right around 500 bucks. Then I'll be Ian Miller, published author, rather than Ian Miller, underemployed underachiever. How do you like them apples? Oh, you don't like apples? My mistake.
So then there's just the thing of the title to be resolved. Here's a coupla things that sprung to mind:
Anyone got $500 I could borrow? ßßß
Re-remiss
Oh my little blawglets, my blawgophiles, my blawgophiliacs. I beseech your forgiveness. I have been negligent, behindhand, careless, delinquent, derelict, disregardful, lax, neglectful, regardless, slack, faineant, indolent, lazy, and slothful in updating and I apologize profusely. I was lured in by the sirens' songs of work (both regular and freelance), eBay (both buying and selling), rocking (both as spectator and performer), and you know, other various and sundry proclivities that needed indulgence. Oh, what a tangled WWW we weave. ...
Speaking of which, the strangest Web-related happening of the week was this news piece, which claims that Simon, erstwhile singer of Drowningman, has formed a new band. Only that band already existed, and I should know, because I'm in it. Truth is, we are talking to Simon, and we hope to hell it all works out, but it's still in the talking stages. But hey, the guy is being proactive and making things happen. And that can't be bad. I don't think.
In addition to scoring a singer, hopefully, fingers crossed, knock wood, we also scored the supercast.com domain for cheap. Total coup.
In other rock news, The Hills Have Eyes are playing a show this Saturday at ye olde Edinburgh Castle this Saturday, where you can come and see (and hear) the many effects pedals I've recently acquired. You can also peep some pictures from our show at the Stork Club with Lift to Experience earlier this month here. And if anyone can tell me how to make my goddamn nav bar stay at the top of the page, that'd be nice too. Tables suck. ßßß
Usually I'm vehemently anti-beard, but ...
Aereogramme are the best band you've never heard. Unless, of course, you have heard of them, in which case they are the best band you have heard. But if you've heard them, then you already know that, and the preceding is redundant.
Aereogramme are playing Bottom of the Hill tonight. I've had my tickets for going on two months now. Although it probably won't sell out, I wasn't taking any chances. I'll let you all know how it turns out.
In the meantime, here are some links so you can edumacate yourself:
Musical nirvana, baby. Bring it on. ßßß
High on Sushi
You might not consider it a mind-altering substance, but if you put enough wasabi on it, you can definitely get high on sushi. Add equal parts wasabi and soy sauce, mix it up into a thick brownish paste, and apply liberally to your maki. If your eyes water, your nose runs, and you see God, you're doing it right. Man, I can practically see the endorphins coursing through my veins right now. In an hour or so I'll need a nap and I'll be completely completely worthless. What goes up ...
This is my latest acquisition, which I bought from an actual person (rather than on eBay). Ryan, the guitarist/singer/sex symbol from The Hills Have Eyes, has informed me that I am hopelessly uncool for owning a piece of gear by Line 6, who are known primarily for their sterile and awful-sounding digital amplifiers, but I got a great deal, and it sounds amazing. Good thing I spent close to $200 on a shitload of new Spectraflex cables to accommodate my new pedal pathology.
Canadians. Can't live with them, can't annex them. Pity.
I kid because I love. ßßß
WTF Is a Craw, Anyway?
So I think we know why we're all here today: That's right, the use and abuse of Calvin, erstwhile star of Calvin and Hobbes.
As everyone knows, Calvin pisses on things he doesn't like. Things like la migra, Fords/Dodges/Chevys, Osama bin Laden (or your custom words), even the Sierra Club.
Once upon a time, if you were a reactionary redneck idiot and wanted to express your displeasure about something, you knew what to do. You went out to the swap meet and picked up a pissing Calvin sticker and slapped it on your rig, in between the No Fear and Bad Boy Club stickers. It was pure. Virtuous. Irreproachable.
But no more. The first shot across the bow in the ideological hijacking of Calvin was the praying Calvin, which can be seen fouling the rear windows of minivans from Portland Oregon to Portland Maine. Now where do you, Mr. or Ms. Swap Meet Vinyl Sticker Printer, get off shanghai'ing the whole concept of pissing Calvin for your own nefarious Christian ends? You could have made Calvin pissing on a pentagram. Or a goat's head. Even a Star of David or the crescent moon and star of Islam. But noooooooooooo. You took it upon yourself to turn Calvin and everything he represents on his proverbial head and made him pray.
And I thought that was the worst until this morning, when I saw a new twist on the pissing Calvin: Pissing Calvin the Anti-Hero transmogrifies into Pissing Calvin the Hero Firefighter. Now this just makes no sense at all. (Neither does this, but try and stay with me here.) Since when is Calvin a doer of good? Last I checked Calvin was a bad little kid, surreptitiously unleashing streams of urine on things that stick in his craw, not a genuflecting, firefighting, goosestepping idiot.
Take back Calvin, I say, and put him where he belongs: on the back windows of F-150s and lowered Hyundai Sonatas everywhere, proclaiming his disgust for things by hosing them down with pee. Barring that, I say we elect the inscrutable girl peeing on the Taliban as our new standard bearer.
All those in favor? ßßß
When all else fails, lower your expectations.
Damn me for training you people to obsessively hit your F5 key starting at or around 10 AM. Sadly, I have no one but myself to blame for setting your expectations where they're at. Now I can't take two consecutive days off without people frantically emailing me to make sure I'm all right. Well, anyone who knows me knows I'm not all right, per se, but they're proboably just wondering whether or not I'm still alive. And if I'm not, can they please have whatever worldly possessions I promised them, please? That'd be great, thanks.
And strangely, it's worldly possessions that have kept me from posting lo these two days. Finding and buying and selling junk on eBay, to be more specific. But at least I'm no longer just
buying; I'm selling now, too. Feel free to give me all your money.
Other than that, not a whole lot else is cracklin' in the Yay Area. Practice tonight, playing some bastardized version of wiffle/soft/baseball with some friends of Kris' on Wednesday, going to see the A's dispatch the Angels on Thursday, checking out Jealous Sound at Bottom of the Hill on Friday, courtesy of free tickets courtesy of KALX, and hosting a huge party on Saturday. You're not invited. Unless, of course, you are. If so, we'll see you there. ßßß
The Internet Is Weird
I certainly didn't expect three different people to email me about the DeKalb shirt I bought, but that's exactly what happened. Apparently DeKalb is a subsidiary of the evil Monsanto corporation, and makes evil genetically modified corn seed, which I would apparently know if I lived anywhere in the middle of North America instead of at one or the other end.
I have received no end of shit from my colleagues regarding my water-cooler-related rants of the past couple of days. I hate that they read this, because it significantly curtails the shit-talking possibilities herein.
Like take the meeting I endured today. A weekly conference call between us and our counterparts in Southern California. Forty-five or so minutes of hemming, hawing, sighing, and paper-shuffling, and maybe five minutes of actual business. And I'll never get that time back.
There was actual work I could have been doing. There were weblogs I could have been reading. There was tons of stuff (literally) I could have been bidding on on eBay. But instead I sat silently in a pointless, agenda-free, rudderless, clusterfuck of a meeting for the better part of an hour, which did me no good and much harm. Between that and the monthly birthday brunch meeting yesterday morning, I'm ready to call the whole thing off. I'm considering taking every Friday off just to avoid the department meeting. I'd rather be eaten by bears than ever go throught that again. ßßß
Rules of Thumb #11: Water Consumption
It just occurred to me, however, that you can arrive at almost the exact same number by figuring out your weight in kilos and drinking that many ounces of water. But that mixes the U.S. customary system and the metric system, which doesn't sit right with me. Bear with me, though, cuz I can do this, even though I'm worse at math than I am at geography.
My weight = 180 pounds. Divided in twain, carry the 5, hmmm... OK, so that's 90 fluid ounces.
180 pounds = ~82 kilograms. And 90 fluid ounces = 2.66 liters. So now I have to make 2.66 go into 82.
OK, so it's not perfect, but if you take your weight in kilos and divide it by 30, that's about how much water in liters you should drink every day. Alternately, you can multiply your weight in kilos by 30 and drink that many milliliters. All this, of course, is based on something I overheard some random guy say at the gym, so please. Take it with a grain of salt. But if you do, be sure to drink a little more water. That sodium chloride will dehydrate you.
Today's Water Tally
Consumption: Right around 90 oz., give or take, as of this writing, 2:25 in PM, Pacific Daylight Time.
Number of times I replaced the goddamned bottle on the water cooler/dispenser unit yesterday: 2.
Number of times I've replaced the goddamned bottle on the water cooler/dispenser unit today: 2. That means I've been responsible for 12 gallons of new water over the past two days, and drank less than a sixth of that. This means my 9th floor colleagues are still stickin' it to me, and I don't appreciate it. I suggest you start changing your tune and heft a bottle of water, you bastards. ßßß
Water, Water Everywhere, Nor Any Drop to Drink
It's already like a million degrees out. Looks like I picked the wrong day to swath myself from head to toe in polyester. I hope I spontaneously combust today. At least that way I'd be out of my misery.
So I drink a lot of water in the course of a workday. Maybe as much as 80 to 100 fl. oz. And that's just while I'm at work. So that means a lot of trips to the bathroom and a lot of trips to the water cooler. Which is invariably empty. Which means I have to put a new three-gallon bottle on. Which means I get to drink room-temperature water. Which pisses me off to no end.
I'm changing the bottle an average of four times a week, which means I'm responsible for 2.4 gallons of water-changing a day, which is more than twice what I drink, which means you bastards on the 9th floor are not pulling your weight. So step up, or I will put the smack down.
While we're putting smacks down, will someone please stab Stuart Scott in the face??? His calls are terrible to begin with, and that's compounded by the fact that he recycles the same half-dozen calls over. And over. And over. This has got to be my personal least favorite, though.
Please, Baby Jesus, make it stop.
Another blog bites the dust. This always cracked me up. R.I.P., kingFresh.
Tracy reminded me that I left her gorgeous kimono ($20) off the list of stuff we scored at Ye Olde Antique Faire. My apologies, baby. Justice has been served.
Turn over a new leaf today. Make a fresh start. Promise me you won't leave an empty or near-empty water bottle on the cooler today. People are counting on you, and your mother doesn't work here, goddammit. ßßß
Another Fine Mess I've Gotten Myself in To
Saturday's sunburn mishap was more than made up for by a banner day at the Alameda Antiques Faire. Tracy and I ran into all the boys from the tattoo shop, and even my Mom and Dad, so we were rolling like eight deep, striking fear into the hearts of Marina girls and old folks alike. Among our many finds were:
I'm sure there was other stuff, although I can't rightly remember any of it. Rest assured, though, it was grand. Love me an antiques faire, I tell ya. ßßß
Couch Potato or Gym Rat?
We celebrated our independence yesterday by sleeping in, hanging out with my family, and watching two perfectly awful movies and one good one. This Antoine Fuqua cat's got some chops.
We also caught some Def Poetry Jam on the old HBO. I am almost always blown away by the power and passion and craft of the kids (and come on, they are mostly kids; the older Maya Angelou types are invariably embarrassing and overly dramatic). Good shit. And apparently they're even doing the Def Poetry Jam in San Francisco. Might have to check that out.
Def Poetry Jam + Netflix + baseball = a happy boy. Smash My Television? Don't think so, you smug, self-righteous fuck. Hug my television.
The gym may be a healthy addiction as addictions go, but it's an addiction nonetheless.
My current regime has me going three days on, one day off. A heavy cardio day (usually a half-hour each of elliptical training and rowing), a lighter cardio day (50 minutes combined stairclimbing and cycling), and a lifting day (full-body). It's all been very thoroughly researched and battle-tested. I'm easily in the best shape of my life.
I resisted exercising for the longest time. Not only did I have Grave's Disease, which allowed me to eat whatever I want and stay rail-thin (150 pounds compared to my current 180), but I was also convinced that working out was narcissistic and self-indulgent. I thought it would sap my time and energy that could be better spent pursuing artistic endeavors. It seemed petty.
I don't know that I've fundamentally changed my mind about any of that, but I've made my peace with it. Sure it's narcissistic and petty. I could be laying down in front of tanks or doing labor organizing or working at the SPCA. But it feels so damned good. I feel better, I look better, I am better. I actually find that I have more energy now. And since I work out in the mornings before work, it gets me out of bed and gets my day started at 6 instead of 8, so it's almost as if I have more time, too.
So as vices go, the gym ain't half bad. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't own a video game console. Apart from spending way too much time looking for esoteric analog guitar effects pedals on eBay, the gym is all I have left. Plus, I still haven't paid the $85-a-month dues since January, and they still let me in everyday. So it's kinda like I have to go. It's my civic duty to stick it to the man. For everyone who's ever signed up for the gym only to stop going after three weeks but waited eight months to cancel their membership, this is for you. Power to the people. ßßß
Africa, America, and Southern California
Just had lunch at an all-i-could-eat Cameroonian buffet and had my first encounter with yucca. Maybe my last, too. In retrospect, I'm thinking that "all you can eat" + "Cameroonian" might not have been such a great plan. Yow.
So could American Idol have possibly huffed any more dong than it did last night? What a travesty. It's clear that the producers recognize how bad it sucks, and tried to inject some drama into the proceedings by staging a beef between the judges and instructing the brain-dead hosts to incite a catfight between two contestants. Too little, too late, too lame. Even the disqualification of one of the contestants couldn't salvage this poor excuse for entertainment. Bah, I say. Bah.
Random Poll
Results. Like you care. Bastards. ßßß
This Just In: eBay Is the Devil
No time to blog. I've sold my soul to the auction gods. Goddamn bastards keep outbidding me. Why, Lord? Why????
Good thing I'm not this guy. Or these guys. This, on the other hand, sounds exactly like me.
Can't freaking wait to see this. Or this.
And I don't know what to make of this. Seems wrong, though.
Gotta get back the grind. Wish me luck. ßßß
Best Overheard Conversations of the Weekend, Special Pride Edition
I. Friday.
The Player: random dude.
The Place: the rock show.
Random dude (excitedly, to his friends): I just met everyone in the band! Damn, I wish I was a girl. ...
II. Saturday.
The Players: woman pushing stroller, with two young girls.
The Place: Gaylord's cafe.
Woman: Do you guys want cookies?
Girls: Yes!
Woman: Are you ready to go see Mama and Mommy?
Girls: Yes!
III. Sunday.
The Players: Tracy and a random woman.
The Place: Pride. I'm in a port-a-pottie, and Tracy is waiting for me outside.
Woman: Are you waiting?
Tracy: No, I'm just waiting for my husband to come out. (pregnant pause) Not that way ... I mean, I'm waiting for him to come out of the bathroom.
Woman: Well, yeah, I guess if he's your husband, you'd probably know if he was in or out. (Tracy and woman explode with laughter.)
God, I love it here. ßßß
Don't miss last month's brilliant insight.
